Cireth and Un'Gothre
by KallielsFate
Summary: A story taking place several centuries before the rise of Kerrigor and the Interregnum, featuring the Abhorsen confronted by an old enemy who may be closer to him than he knows. Rating some violence, mild suggestive themes
1. Prologue

Prologue

Jallel knocked his boots together to clear off the snow that had coated them while he conducted his survey of the northwest turret, in vain hopes that he could restore a little circulation to his frozen toes. The wall surrounding Chasel was by no means as grand as the defenses of Belisaere, but its stalwart contingent of guards kept watch over their village just as zealously. Nothing moved in the night that should not have, though Jallel highly doubted that he would find anything from the western side of the town, what with the river and all. Not, of course, that there had been any attacks from the Dead in these parts for a good century.

The snow continued to fall.

Creaking down the narrow tower stair, Jallel enjoyed the all-too-brief respite from the biting cold, only to gasp as a blast of crosswind whipped the air out of his lungs when he exited onto the main rampart.

"Aye, can't handle a little wind, lad?" It was Nestor, Jallel's commander. The young scout promptly snapped to attention.

"Sir."

"Ha, at ease, lad, at ease. Care for some?" the corporal asked, waving a small bottle of inviting amber drink, "And don't give me any of that official-duty hogwash! Just a little drink between good friends, no?"

Jallel smiled, and adjusted his sword-belt as he leaned up against the wall. Nestor had trained Jallel while the young man was a lowly cadet in the small force at Chasel. The somewhat heavyset man in his 50's had faded a bit from his days as a mentor, but was still a capable officer. Then, and now, Nestor never let rank get in the way of his friendship with Jallel. Again, the corporal beckoned with the bottle, which glinted in the light from a nearby torch.

"There's a good boy," said Nestor as the scout accepted the bottle and took a swig, "Much too cold up here for me, old boy, much less a mere mortal as yourself!" The corporal's famed (and oft-impersonated in the barracks) belly laugh sounded out from the wall, to be quickly muffled by the fierce and thick snowfall.

"Now, sir, don't tell me you've gotten too soft to handle a little snowfall?"

"Snowfall! Ha! No one ever mentioned anything like a blizzard when I signed up! I'm expecting a fat bonus from that old fart Nostrod at the end of the year for some of the things I put up with on this post."

"Respectfully, sir, do you think this is the king's High Guard at the capital?"

"Don't give me your 'Respectfully, sir!' Jallel!" Nestor let out another guffaw. He snatched back the bottle and took another swig. The two stood up on the ramparts in silence, enjoying the company if not the climate. Jallel got up from his position, about to start his patrol again when Nestor started. The old man swiftly capped the bottle, and motioned silently for the scout to come closer. They leaned over the ramparts, not looking to the river, but instead into the town, where they had a clear view of the central square. The shops had closed many hours ago, and so there were no lights on to illuminate the town fountain and Charter Stone. Only the smallest glint of reflected moonlight reached up to the wall, but Jallel could still just make out the shape of the fountain's large bowl.

"Did you see that? There's someone out in the square."

"Are you sure?"

"Quiet, boy! Watch the fountain…" Nestor fell silent, and Jallel felt his heart flip as he saw not one but two, then three shadows pass over and obscure the faint glitter of water. But the corporal was already in motion, loosing his sword in its sheath, and taking up the torch from its bracket. Nestor moved to the door of the turret and began to make his way down the tower stairs to street level. Jallel would have been surprised at his old mentor's speed, given the man's size, had he not seen the corporal before in true form. The man, though older than many on the force, was an absolute lion when the time was right. He hurried to keep up.

No sooner had the two left the tower and trudged out onto the street when the torch went out. The flame whipped up as if caught in a sudden draft, and then was smothered as if by an invisible hand. Jallel stared, then started back into the tower to get another light.

"No!" hissed Nestor. Instead, the corporal drew his sword in one hand, and lifted his other one as if grasping a ball. The man blew into it, and a globe of light formed, with tiny Charter-sparks falling to the ground as flakes hit the golden blaze. Jallel quickly drew his own weapon, and they set off down the street toward the square. They approached the nearest corner, hugging close to the wall. Nestor motioned to wait, and then stepped out into the small plaza.

"Town watch! Declare yourself? Who's out there?" Jallel heard the guard walk slowly towards the central fountain and Charter Stone, calling out once again. The soft clunk of metal-tipped boots on flagstones accompanied the corporal, but no voices returned the challenge. For a time, all was silent. Then a shout ripped the air.

Jallel did not hesitate, whipping out from the corner with sword drawn and his own Charter-light held high. But he stopped just as suddenly, for a moment unable to comprehend what he saw. There was Nestor, floating over the Charter Stone. And over him, an impossibly skinny and tall figure, made visible only because he was blacker than the night behind him. Next to that shape was the misshapen body of a Dead Hand.

Charter marks for burning, rending, and blasting formed in the Jallel's mind. Before he could shout them out, a hand clamped down over his mouth with inhuman force. The stench of rotting flesh coupled with the unmistakable tang of free magic invaded his nostrils, and Jallel's eyes widened as he saw the black figure raise a horribly serrated knife high into the air. It was about to come crashing down onto Nestor when the Dead hands clasping Jallel whipped his head backwards with a snap.


	2. Messages from the Sky

Messages from the Sky

Cireth woke to a loud crack from outside his window. Even with the window sealed shut against the brisk winter morning, it was apparent that there was some great commotion. Cireth rose from his comfortably warm bed and peered out of the small round widow of ancient rippled glass down to the courtyard outside his bedroom. Below, smoke rose from a small forge that was surrounded by the tools and equipment of a rather complex smiting job. Several carefully sculpted rods of silver lay on the ground, with many more unfinished ones leaning against the wall on one side. The smith had his back to the window, crouched over the ground picking up spilled implements. Though the man seemed burly enough, in the bright early morning light Cireth could clearly make out the shape of the forge as light streamed through the man's chest. It seemed that a certain interloper had interrupted the sending in his careful task. And given this house, there was only one possible interloper.

"Mogget," sighed Cireth.

"Yes?" said the white cat, winding himself around the Abhorsen's bare feet, not being very careful about his claws. Cireth had long ago stopped jumping at the creature's odd eccentricities, which ranged from an almost telepathic ability to know when fish was for dinner, to the occasional near-teleportation. Mogget had been much quieter when Aelyn was mistress of the house, so much so that Cireth had only seen the cat twice before his assumption of his mother's office. The first had been at 7, when a cat the young boy had never seen before leapt onto the dining table to steal Cireth's fish and thank him for it, and second 14 years later to inform Cireth of the Abhorsen's death. Since then, however, Mogget had made himself far more available, perhaps to assist the learning Abhorsen when his tutelage was unexpectedly cut short. At 48, Cireth had no more need of teaching from the cat, or, more accurately, construct, but Mogget still hung around.

This morning, Cireth wished for a little more of Mogget's taciturn side.

"I would speak to that sending, you wouldn't want the weave of that new gate to be as weak as it's making it now."

"You don't think I trust the sending my great-uncle spend 10 years of his life constructing? Sometimes I think that it must have more of a mind than you showcase, Mogget." The white cat chose to reply only with a flippant gesture of the tail as he walked out of the bedroom and off to the kitchens, no doubt to badger the sendings. Cireth noted that the magical constructs were becoming quite adept at resisting the cat's machinations.

Not yet hungry, Cireth donned a dark bathrobe of silken material, dusted with fine embroidery of keys. He stepped into a small alcove that held a water basin and a large oval mirror. Staring into his reflection he rubbed his short beard. He considered himself lucky at such an age to still be without any gray hair, though he noticed a little thinning near his temples. Sighing, he splashed some cold water onto his face before putting on a shirt and pants and walking down to the main hall.

Morning light shone in from the east window of the hall, brilliantly showcasing the delicate tracery of stained glass and Charter magic installed by one of the builders of the Abhorsen's home. The scene seemed to Cireth to try and coax him to action, depicting the grand works of the Wallmakers. Not for the first time, the Abhorsen pondered the original purpose of the Wall itself. Abhorsen past had been known to do dealings across the Wall with Ancelstierre, though it had never come to Cireth's responsibility to cross the magical divide. He was interrupted by a sending who was gently pushing the high chair into his legs to try and force him to sit. Breakfast was ready.

Cireth did not waste much time eating his omelet. The only company, of course, was Mogget, and that was not the kind of conversation Cireth could endure over food. Soon he was striding over to the western courtyard where the forge was set up. Now over the small island the delicate clank of the smith's hammer could be heard. The burly sending was carefully bending the silver rods into the shape of a small gate that would fit exactly over the west entrance to the island. The Abhorsen examined the work and nodded his approval. The gate itself was not that physically strong, but the silver imbued it with plenty enough power to block a Shadow Hand who managed to slip past mere physical defenses. The lock Cireth constructed himself. It was a fine piece of machinery that was more Charter magic than metal. When attached to the gate, the spell would release like an invisible field around the door. To a guest it would be a normal gate, To the Dead, the already inimical silver would blast back with flame.

He did not notice the hawk until it crowed at him from the ground. Recognizing its distinctly colored plumage, Cireth promptly offered it his wrist. The hawk, now at face level with him, cocked its head.

"Message for the Abhorsen…message for the Abhorsen…"

"Yes," he responded. Cireth recognized the next voice as Captain Tyndale, commander of the Belisaere Royal Guard.

"My respects Abhorsen. I have bad tidings. I know it has been some time since an attack of this nature, but we have just today received a message from Chasel, downriver from High Bridge. It seems they have lost their Charter Stone, as well as a few of their guards. There were no reports of any Dead however, but the only information we have is from their own message hawk. I've sent off a group of our guard to investigate and give them reinforcements, but obviously you must get to Chasel as soon as possible. I bid you fare well, Abhorsen."

A sending had arrived to give the hawk some feed before it set off on its long journey back north. The Abhorsen was already walking back to the house. Mogget was waiting.

"I gather this means no fish for dinner, then?"

In his study Cireth contemplated a map of the Old kingdom. It would be a good day's ride to Qyrre, but a good road would lead him from there to Chasel. He could get there in just two and a half days if he rode as fast as he dared, with just a short stop at Qyrre to rest. The sendings were already packing the necessities (and the occasional luxury) into the saddlebags. _The Book of the Dead_ was already in his pack, the dark leather quietly watching him as Cireth consulted the rest of his library. He selected a few texts, and then carefully rolled the map into its own oilskin case held by an attendant.

Back on the western courtyard, Cireth saw his horse, Laedren, patiently undergoing a final check by the sendings. He mounted the palomino, careful that his sword was resting properly in its scabbard. Cireth rode the horse over the stepping stone bridge, and dismounted for the walk through the western cliff. Mogget peered out from the saddlebag.

"You didn't think I'd be letting you rush out on this all by yourself?

"For a minute, yes, I was hoping that…" responded Cireth, whose only other response was flipping the leather flap of the bag down to noisy protest from inside.

Soon enough, Cireth and Laedren exited the far door, which sealed itself invisibly into the high escarpment. Looking northward, the Abhorsen paused to enjoy the sight of miles and miles of the Old Kingdom, muted in snow, beckoning adventure. But Cireth did not feel zeal in setting out.

Un'Gothre had revealed herself for the first time in years, and it would not be the first time she and the Abhorsen had clashed.


End file.
